The Stars Go Over the Lonely Ocean
by Dragons-And-Merlin's-Beard
Summary: After everything; the wedding, the relapse, and the reveal of Mary's past - Sherlock remains alone. With his best friend and love of his life gone, he's lost. He finds little point in anything and gets caught behind everything, forcing himself into isolation. He's out of the will to fight or solve and people begin to think Sherlock Holmes will remain forever out of business.
1. In the Beginning

**The Stars Go Over the Lonely Ocean**

In the Beginning

_Unhappy about some far off things_  
_That are not my affair, wandering_  
_Along the coast and up the lean ridges,_  
_I saw in the evening_  
_The stars go over the lonely ocean._

Anyone would view the situation of Sherlock Holmes' living state as sad. Depressing. All together empty and pointless; but the detective saw it as nothing other than that of a normalcy. How he lived was exactly that, it's how he was, what he endured, and what he saw as usual and routine. Deep back in his mind, however, he knew how wretched his state was, how lonely he felt and seemed to the outside eye. He just didn't like to admit that because his best friend, John Watson, had left the duty of being his flat mate, he was completely alone and back like he was before meeting the danger-seeking army doctor.

He wasn't entirely alone, really, he still had his land lady - oh sweet Mrs. Hudson - bringing his morning tea, fussing about the mess he'd make around the flat. Sometimes Greg Lestrade and others among Scotland Yard would pop in to see if the man was doing any better or worse. Then there was the occasional and rather irritating visit from his brother, Mycroft, who did in fact worry about his poor little brother. His younger sibling who had indeed lost his heart when he'd given it away to a man who couldn't return his own.

It was evident to almost everyone in Sherlock's life that he was hopelessly in love with John Watson; except for John himself. He was completely and utterly oblivious to the detective's feelings. The feelings he'd had caged away, unused nearly his whole life until John had came limping into his life.

Molly Hooper would give him a ring too at times, visit as well, and despite her own feelings for the man, she respected Sherlock's own for John. She was selfless and only wanted the detective to be happy and have the man he loved. Although she was pleased she'd been able to grow close to Sherlock and form a stronger friendship in which she would get some information from him, just little vague bits about his feelings.

Then there was John. His visits were less frequent than everyone else's. He'd only stop by a couple times a month at most as he was busy with his new born child and wife.

Sherlock was still lonely, whether he'd admit that to himself or anyone else or not.

Days like today tended to be worse, more agonizing and heavy on the shoulders. Some days just didn't bring him any more joy, only less, and only quiet air, stomach-churning boredom and depression.

He woke up, eyes opened a crack to take in the sunlight pouring through the curtains in his bedroom. It was around seven thirty, he guessed, and he knew he'd only gotten to sleep but three hours prior.

With a small puff of air, Sherlock hauled himself up into a sitting position, groggily propping himself up against the head board of his bed. He could feel it in his bones, that today held no point, and no advancement in anything. Of course he couldn't know that, but the feeling was enough to send him into the worst of moods.

He swiped a hand through his slightly greasy, and tangled curls resting on top of his head. He yawned softly before forcing himself off the bed and on to his feet, red dressing gown hanging awkwardly around his shoulders as he had lost muscle and weight - leaving him with a flimsy structure and bony shoulders. His hand went to his arm, scratching at the nicotine patches stuck to his arm beneath his sleeve.

Sherlock slowly lumbered down the hallway, and out into the kitchen. His large feet made light foot steps along the floor as he pushed himself out into the sitting room, collapsing on to the couch. It was no different from lying in his bed but he figured it for the best to change his positions here and there to have some visual stimulation.

His limbs stretched out along the comfort of the couch, and his head rested against the crook of the cushion and arm of the sofa. He allowed his eyes to close and he just rested there in the silence of the flat until he heard the light and careful steps of Mrs. Hudson making their way up to 221B. She entered quietly with a tray of tea and biscuits in her hands.

"Oh! Sherlock, you're up already." She greeted with an enthusiastic smile, stepping over to the coffee table to set down her tray, "I got your morning tea for you."

Sherlock's eyes slid open again to gaze dully over at the tray, the smell of food and drink only causing his stomach to become upset with the though of having to do something as tedious as digesting, "No thank you." He rumbled, turning his back to the woman.

"Sherlock, please come on, just this tea at least. You don't even have to eat breakfast like I normally insist on." Mrs. Hudson tried, in her saddened voice, pouring tea into a cup, "You're too thin for your own good."

The comment caused a small twitch in Sherlock as he didn't like when people pointed out his state of being utterly unhealthy. Withering away. "Take it back downstairs, it will only waste and become too cold for consumption." He muttered, keeping his face pressed into the back of the couch.

The landlady wasn't having it, she added two sugars to one cup before propping a warm biscuit right beside it, "Right now, young man." She ordered, "Or I can call someone else to come feed you."

Sherlock shrugged but finally sat himself up and leaned over the table of food, making a look of distaste. Eating, it was so boring and pointless - he just hated it now. "Maybe I am just not hungry." He suggested lamely, nudging the biscuit with his knuckle, "Maybe I wish to be left alone up here."

Mrs. Hudson kept silent because she knew if she were to ever leave Sherlock alone in his flat, she might come up one day to find him dead from something - there were too many possibilities that could lead to that man's death. She slowly made up her own cup and pulled a chair in next to the couch to enjoy her tea beside the other, "How about I call up Molly? She's so lovely, Sherlock, I'm sure she can cheer you up, take you out somewhere so you're not always cooped up inside this dusty flat of yours."

Sherlock offered a small shrug instead of an angry shout of disagreement. The last thing he felt like doing was putting on actual clothes so that could go outside and deal with too many other people and uncomfortable things.

"Well, you eat something and I'll go give Molly a ring then." Mrs. Hudson said without waiting for a reply. She pulled herself up from the chair and promptly left the flat to wander back down stairs to her own.

Sherlock sighed, adjusting himself on to his back. His hands came up to rub over his tightly stretched and tired face, rubbing at the dry skin foresting on his cheeks. Everything felt incredibly tedious as of late and all he wanted to do was dive into bed beneath the covers. The work wasn't even of interest anymore. Every case Lestrade offered seemed too dull and futile to solve. He was too conscious of everything else he didn't realize that he, himself, was sinking into a dark abyss soon to disappear.

_Caring is not an advantage. _

How true were those words applying to the situation that the detective had managed to get himself into. He would never admit to the fact that he'd let himself care so much about John Watson, but it still stood evident and true.

. . .

Pale fingers fidgeted with the locks on a bedroom door, the purpose of keeping everyone out as it was preferred. With a small sigh, Sherlock flopped down ever so gracefully on to his bed. He parted his lips, brushing his tongue along them. They were so dry and chapped - most likely from the lack of drinking and surplus of cigarettes. He was dry, all of him felt dry and barren.

When he heard a small creaking of stairs and a polite knock on the door to the sitting room he curled his blankets all around him and suppressed a groan rising in his throat. Molly was here.

Sherlock didn't want company. Company brought sympathy, pity, and an overload of kindness he never wanted nor asked for. He quite doubted that Molly really even wanted to be here since he'd recently found out she'd been thrown back into the dating world again - Tom forgotten. It would just be so much simpler for them to remain apart and on their own accord.

The knocking consisted though, with no answer. Then came along the muffled and almost sheepish, "Sherlock?" She almost sounded afraid. Maybe afraid of what she might walk in on. The possibility of a needle in one hand, plunging it into a protruding vein to emit the liquid goodness of cocaine. "Sherlock, I'm coming in." She'd always announced that, making sure that if he _was _doing anything .. not-good, that she wouldn't have to see.

Wood creaking, fabric shuffling, and foot steps pressing heavily on the floor boards. Simple mundane sounds that Sherlock missed of his old company; his blogger.

The noises continued for several minutes until they started to near Sherlock's room. He dove further beneath the comfort of his blankets. It was as close to disappearing as he could ever get.

A jiggle of a door knob then turning, and turning - denied. Locked.

"Sherlock. Let me in."

_As if,_ Sherlock thought to himself, furrowing his brow and pressing his large spidery hands over his face.

"Mrs. Hudson said that you aren't eating at all."

_If I wasn't eating at all, I'd be dead right now,_ Sherlock nearly spat out. "Leave." He offered, his voice muffled by the abundance of sheets.

"I've decided that you'll benefit for a single day out of this flat. You can't just linger around your bedroom your whole life. People are worried. I'm worried." Her voice took on another tone, one of the tone's Sherlock despised; worry. "Please, Sherlock."

. . .

"Weather is nice."

It wasn't. Days with bright sun that always caught in your eyes at inconvenient times was not at all nice. There was a nasty gust of wind persisting to knock things around outside, and roar loud enough to hear from inside a small coffee shop.

Sherlock curled his fingers around his coffee cup, tapping his finger tips against the outer foam, "When I am allowed to go back home?" He asked in a small mutter, eyes flicking over to Molly, who sat across from him at a window-seated table.

"Ask questions like that and I'll answer with 'never'." She replied quickly, sipping lightly at her cappuccino. Her lips quirked up at the corners, her eyes watching the detective carefully. He didn't respond, and didn't even bother to keep eye contact as his gaze faltered down to his own untouched drink. "You know you're depressed, right? And lonely? Or are you unable to even accept the fact of that?"

The question hit hard from the wait and from the fact that it was sudden and unexpected, "I have informed everyone, who seems to be so interested in my personal life, that I am fine. I wish you'd all stop assuming that I'm some pathetic corpse of a man."

"I'm not saying that." Molly said immediately, more fierce and firm, "You just don't see. You don't see how lost you are, you always look lost. You're not a pathetic man, Sherlock, you're a broken one."

"I am not broken." Sherlock murmured, the fire gone from his words - leaving them flat and almost meaningless. "Some things have just changed."

"Things as in John moving out and neglecting to visit you?" Molly asked, her eyes set at an intensity on Sherlock's. She felt rude, and harsh on what she was saying but she was done sitting around trying to coddle Sherlock when he didn't even want it.

"_No." _His voice was cold and was enough to send a shiver down Molly's spine, sending her eyes wide. His tall, lanky form then rose suddenly from their table and he was on his way to leave the shop.

"Sherlock, stop." Molly called after him, grabbing her soft blue gloves before following him out the door. "Sherlock! Wait!" He wasn't sprinting off or anything but his long legs gave the advantage of long strides in his walking. She broke into a jog and was able to catch up to the detective. She threw her hand out and caught him by the arm, dragging him back, "Sherlock, please."

Sherlock's head whipped around, his intense gaze boring into her own. He tugged his arm away from her hold but he didn't walk away or even move, "Please what? What is it that you even want?" He asked, voice bitter.

"I just want to _help_ you." Molly answered, swallowing dryly, "That's all anyone wants to do, but you keep shutting everyone out."

"I never asked for help." Sherlock spat.

"Well too bad, Sherlock, because some people actually care about you." Molly said impatiently.

_John doesn't. _

"We can go back to your flat, but I'm staying and making sure you're okay." She insisted before turning around to hail the both of them a cab. Sherlock couldn't argue the fact of going back to the comfort of his own home so he followed suit as Molly clambered into a taxi.

The ride back to Baker street was silent with both passengers finding interest in looking out the windows of the back seats. Sherlock had his head leaning against the door, thinking to himself with his eyes closed. He feared that Molly was going to spend the whole day at the flat and wouldn't allow him to sulk around all day. He imagined he'd find some sort of experiment to do and she'd soon become bored and leave.

When they got back, Sherlock went straight to his bedroom to shed off his suit and trousers, only to replace them with a clean set of pajamas. He didn't feel in the need to look presentable any more, he only wanted to be a bit more comfortable for his own sake.

He tugged on his plaid dressing gown and was out into the kitchen to begin setting up some of his beakers and cylinders on to the table. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Molly making herself at home by hanging up her coat and settling down in John's old chair. He stopped in an instant and was storming into the sitting room pulling Molly up from chair, "Don't sit there." It was irrational, he knew that, and he knew that it didn't make him look any better; but no one could sit there. No one but John.

"Why can't I?" There was the question that Sherlock didn't even remotely want to answer, so he didn't. He just brushed back into the kitchen to resume setting up. "Sherlock."

When he didn't answer, she gave up and left. There was only so much she could put up with in one day and it didn't seem like Sherlock would be of much harm to himself tonight. However when she got home, she made sure to text him to make sure he was okay.

_Hey, you okay for tonight? Mx_

There wasn't a response until many hours later.

_No. SH_

* * *

**_A/N: _Hope you enjoy this. Leave reviews, let me know how you liked this. Won't update until next weekend, or after. I have finals this week. Awful time to start a fanfic, right? Poem by Robinson Jeffers.**


	2. Falling From Your Reach

**The Stars Go Over the Lonely Ocean**

Falling From Your Reach

_There are bright lights and people,_

_I am lost with fear,_

_and I look around to see myself alone,_

_as you are not here. _

Sherlock Holmes had found himself succumbing to the desire of his old habit of substance abuse. He was never one to admit his own pain, nor his own loss and sense of loneliness; so naturally his reasons for his constant struggle with drugs was simply that he had an ordinary addiction that came about when searching for some sort of stimulate to help him think for a case or likewise. This time was no time he was in need to think, but instead to cope. _To forget. _

He'd struggled throughout the day, Molly's words echoing through the depths of his mind, shouting and screaming at him. He'd tried the simple action of sitting down in his chair, drinking tea, but that only brought the sight of John's chair, sitting across him, back into his mind sending him off again. It was the emptiness of it that got to him. The fact that he wouldn't ever get to see the chair filled by the right person with the right context. It was empty, and it haunted him to no end.

He let himself lose it as he was flooded with the emotions brought on by the piece of furniture and the memories it held. He slammed his porcelain mug down to the ground, causing it to shatter to several pieces on the ground, staining the rug.

Sherlock didn't care.

_Caring is not an advantage._

Caring, caring, caring - then _love. _That kind of love that bursts unexpectedly into your life and wraps itself tightly around your heart and slowly seeps into your mind without any warning. Then the heart break. What goes up must come down. Everything good must come to an end.

Pain and loss. _Devastation. _Standing in a room that's only occupied by yourself, where the absence of that one person is so painstakingly obvious you can't possibly cope. How could you cope? How could anyone cope with their heart being ripped out because the love you'd fallen in was no longer there for your use? It was wound so tightly around your heart that when it vanishes you're left on your hands and knees just trying to pick up the broken pieces of yourself.

You barely feel as if you can breathe.

Sherlock could hardly breathe or _think_ when he was plagued with these heavy thoughts - he was impulsive and he found himself falling over the edge.

There were papers laying around the sitting room; on the desk, pinned to the wall, and on the coffee table. He stormed around in hysterics, hands grasping the files and documents to throw them to the ground.

Then he stood on the sofa, his fingers clawing at the tacks on the wall keeping the paper up until the skin on his fingers tore. He grabbed the sheets up and ripped them manically before he collapsed on to the nearest surface - in this case the wooden boards beneath his feet. He would not cry nor let out loud ragged sobs of desperation; he would remain there breathing heavily, eyes shut tightly.

_A chemical defect found in the losing side. _

No one heard him going through his fit, his episode, his absolute break down. Mrs. Hudson was out and he was all alone in that flat, with only the company of a skull and his own chaotic mind.

It was when he pulled himself back up from the floor and on to his feet that his tears started to fall down the pale expanse of his cheeks. He made his steps slow and deliberate as he passed through the kitchen then down the hall to his bedroom.

He knelt by his bed, his hand shakily reaching beneath it for a plastic container. He slid it out from underneath and clasped both of his hands over it, staring at it and feeling a large amount of guilt and horror building up inside of him.

_A vicious motivator. _

He swallowed thickly before standing up and taking a seat on the edge of his bed. He undid the clasps on the kit, opening it and reaching for the things, the tools, that he always seemed to resort back to in times of need.

He took a deep breath.

_Human error._

. . . .

It was an instant, an instinct for Molly to be wrapped up in a coat and be in a cab on her way to Baker street when she received Sherlock's text. He wasn't the kind of man to admit defeat, to say that he wasn't okay. He'd admitted it once before, that he wasn't okay - and that was when he though he was going to die. It was only natural for this single gesture to send her completely on edge with panic.

She busied herself on the ride to Sherlock's flat with texting people who she thought might be of concern, might be able to come and help with whatever was about to meet her at the flat. The first person on her mind was John. Then Greg. She didn't have the elder Holmes' phone number but she hoped the message would eventually get out to him.

_Something's wrong with Sherlock. Baker Street, now. _

Molly found her thumbs shaking as she tried to type out the message and get it to the two men. She continuously pleaded for the cabbie to speed up, offering extra money if they should be so kind to comply.

She nearly tripped over her own feet when she climbed out of the cab, throwing out the cash to the driver before dashing right up to the door of 221B. She knocked rapidly, calling out to whoever was home and listening, "Mrs. Hudson! Sherlock! Let me in!"

When the door finally opened, Molly was faced with a concerned Mrs. Hudson, glancing at her with worry, "What are you doing banging on my door, dear? What's the matter?"

Molly didn't have the time nor strength to even explain what justified her actions so she just barged in past the landlady, her breath catching in her throat as she launched herself up the stairs. Each step on the stairs was a loud thud in her mind as she felt herself slowly crashing down with fear and anxiety.

She tried to be rational, she really did, but it was difficult to exercise reason in situations dealing with Sherlock Holmes in his times of despair and ruin. The eccentric main was a ticking time bomb, about to go off at any minute - either destroying those around him, or destroying _himself_.

Molly nearly kicked down the door to the sitting room when she barged inside, frantically glancing around for the sight of the detective, "Sherlock!" She called out, leaving the door open as she rushed into the kitchen, "Sherlock, where are you?!" She asked out desperately, her voice breaking. She looked into the hallway and saw a dim light seeping out from Sherlock's bedroom.

When she pushed open the door to his room and looked in she felt her heart drop and tears begin to well up in her eyes, "Sherlock.." She choked out. She stumbled over to him where he lay in his bed; pale, unconscious, with a tourniquet still tied around his bicep and a needle sitting beside him on the night stand. Molly's hand shot forward to rest on his arm, her fingers wrapping around his wrist to prod for his pulse.

Weak. Very weak.

She covered her mouth with her hand, feeling the warmth of her tears dribbling down over her knuckles. Next she was grabbing her mobile phone, phoning for an ambulance. Her hand cupped Sherlock's face, shaking it slightly as she urged for his eyes to open, "Please.. Sherlock, you can't do this. This isn't _fair. _Don't do this to me."

Molly could barely pull herself together well enough to speak to the woman on the phone, asking for the address and synopsis of the situation. "Two-two-one, Baker Street." Her voice trembled, "My.. m-my friend.. I think he's overdosed." She whispered, reaching out for the syringe in attempt to identify the drug. "On cocaine, I think." She pressed her palm to his face again, needing to ground herself, to realize that this was happening. This was reality, even if it was heartbreaking.

She didn't remember ending the call with the services, her mind was fuzzy and it was hard to focus. She kept her fingers on Sherlock's pulse, whispering over and over to the unconscious man that she needed for him to live.

"I know you think you're alone.. that you don't have the man you love, that he's left you and you now have nothing; but it's not true. You have me, and you still have John. You didn't lose him. He is.. he's on his way, okay? He's on his way." She whispered, sniffling and wiping furiously at her eyes, "You're not alone."

"_Sherlock? Molly?"_

It was John. She stood, her fingers still clasped tightly around Sherlock's wrist to assure herself his heart was still beating, "In here!" Molly managed weakly. The doctor was quick to rush back to the detective's bedroom, looking pale and stricken - which was nothing compared to how he looked when he saw Sherlock.

Molly stepped away as John pushed forward, his hands pressing all over the detective, over his neck where his pulse was slowly dying away and around his arms where there were visible puncture marks. He was in doctor mode but Molly was able to spot the little chink in his armor where his emotions fell through, where his hands fumbled a bit and his breaths quickened.

Then Greg was there, looking dazed, like a deer in headlights, standing in the door way. His mouth was agape and he looked up at Molly for explanation or some words, but she didn't trust her voice.

Everything suddenly started going in fast motion as the ambulance arrived and three men marched inside of the flat, rolling Sherlock on to a stretcher and carefully carrying him out of the room and out of the flat to go load him into the vehicle. Molly stayed behind in the bedroom, her hands clutching her coat as she watched people file out. She was startled as she felt two hands clasp over her shoulders, "You okay?"

She looked over to see Greg staring at her with genuine concern. She sucked in a breath and shook her head, "No." She whispered, falling in against his chest, grateful when she felt his arms circling around her.

"He'll be okay. He's stubborn, there's no way he's giving up now." Greg murmured, praying to God that he was right.

"I just want him to be happy." Molly whispered, "Why does he have to do this to himself?"

Greg slowly shook his head, "I don't know. He's Sherlock, I don't think he knows how to deal with his emotions in the right way." He answered quietly, taking a deep breath before letting go of Molly with a light pat to her arm, "I'm taking you home, you can get some rest, and I'll keep you updated, alright?"

Molly nodded, closing her eyes briefly, "Yeah, okay. Yes, thank you."

Greg offered a small, weak smile before clapping a hand over her shoulder and leading her out of the flat, "_Sherlock will be okay._" He murmured, more to himself than to Molly. _  
_

* * *

**A/N: Sorry this was a bit late, I had finals and it's hard to write angst when I'm not in the right mood. Reviews are appreciated, because I always like to know how I am doing, and how I can improve in any way. It might be difficult to upload chapters quickly as I really want to spend my time on this story and try to make a good build up and plot.**

**I do hope you are enjoying the story, and continue to. Till next time! (Hopefully next week!)**


	3. Oblivious to the Obvious

**The Stars Go Over the Lonely Ocean**

Oblivious to the Obvious

_When I close my eyes,_

_Shut out the pain outside,_

_My soul turns inwards,_

_And I feel the shame inside.  
_

How is one supposed to react to their best friend being taken in the ambulance due to a drug overdose? John wasn't sure how to react or really even what to think other than the simple, _why?_ Why would Sherlock do this? Why go back to drugs and even go as far as taking too much? John prayed that the overdose had been accidental, but it was Sherlock, the man could never misjudge something as simple as a dosage.

He'd taken way over the safe amount even for a regular addict.

Now John was faced with the possibility of actually losing his best friend. Actually. There was no coming back from the dead in this one, this was all him and there was a slim chance of his friend pulling out of all of it. He stood in the back of the squad, grasping tightly on to the detective's limp hand, "Come on, Sherlock, we're losing you." He said in a weakened voice, his words similar to when he'd been in this situation last - except his friend had been shot then.

Sherlock looked worse now. He had no open wound nor any visible evidence of damage. He just looked dead; pale and limp. Yet apparently he wasn't dead, not yet anyway, he still had that faint pulse dully thudding in his wrist where John had two fingers pressed.

John swallowed thickly then adjusted the oxygen mask over Sherlock's mouth and nose before reaching up to carefully brush some of the other man's curls away from his forehead. The doctor was barely able to hold himself together, really who could? How could you stand there in the back of a squad car staring down at your best friend who was on death's door and not fall apart?

John's fingers slid down the side of Sherlock's face, resting against his prominent cheekbone before he cupped his jaw, proceeding to stroke his thumb over the rough stubble growing up from his alabaster skin. He looked just as he had when John had stormed that drug den so long ago, looking for Isaac who he found along side the famous Sherlock Holmes. Unkempt. Rough. Alone.

All through the ride to the hospital, John kept his palm pressed against Sherlock's cheek and held his hand with his own free one, whispering soft reassuring words and pleas for his recovery.

Once the vehicle stopped outside of Bart's, Sherlock was pulled out from the back with John wearily following behind. He couldn't keep up with the nurses and doctors rushing his friend inside so he just numbly stumbled along with the few nurses shutting the back of the ambulance back up. He felt one of them lightly grasp him by the bicep and saw as they all offered tentative smiles.

They led John inside of Bart's and promptly directed him to a waiting room, promising him updates on Sherlock before leaving him be. He sat there in the small uncomfortable chair in mostly silence besides the beeping of distance machines and quiet chatter. It all felt so absolutely horrid.

He was left alone until Greg arrived, wordlessly taking the seat next to John and resting a hand on his shoulder. John hadn't even had time to phone or text Mary to tell her what was going on. He had just grabbed his jacket and told her something was wrong with Sherlock before leaving as quickly as he could. He didn't want to bother with it now either so he just leaned back in his chair and shut his eyes.

. . . .

_The paranoia was extreme after the detective had finished shooting the evil desire into his veins. There were already tears collecting up in his eyes that were to soon drizzle down his pale cheeks. Sherlock parted his lips, sucking in a breath before he reached over to set his syringe on to the bedside table. He pressed back against the head board of his bed as he sat there in silence waiting for the drugs to take him over._

_It was sweet at first. That lovely escape it allows you. You don't feel pain, worry, or heartbreak. You feel almost nothing when you climb to the top of your high, but soon Sherlock felt himself climbing too high. He knew he'd taken too much. He knew that before he'd began prodding for a vein. He didn't think about it, he just did it. Now the effects were hitting him._

_The profuse sweating, the shaking, and the invisible weight bearing down on his chest making it feel as if his ribs were going to cave in and his lungs were going to collapse. He gripped the sheets beside him and let out a soft groan before sinking down on to his back. "John." He whispered quietly, pressing his face into the covers allowing his tears to dampen them. He tugged anxiously at his curls as he willed himself to fall unconscious. _

. . . .

"Mister Watson?"

John lifted his head up, opening his eyes to look up at the nurse hovering by him and Greg, "Doctor Watson." He corrected as an instinct.

"Right, sorry." She murmured apologetically, "I came out to give you an update on Sherlock Holmes. You came with him here, right?"

"Right." John said, with a grit of his teeth. He just wanted to know how Sherlock was, if he pulled through, not be questioned, he knew the questions were coming. It was standard procedure for almost every emergency.

"I have a few questions for you pertaining to your friends' situation." She said before taking a seat in the chair across him. There it was.

John shook his head, sitting up a bit more, "Yes, but how is he?" He asked in a firm and demanding tone.

"He's fine, sir. We've stabilized him and you should soon be able to see him." She answered as if the question was a pointless one. John only nodded, feeling a huge weight slip from his shoulders. He heard Greg letting out a large breath of air beside him in that of relief.

"I only have a few questions just so we're clear on this situation and its conditions." The nurse proceeded, "We wanted to see if you or someone else knew what drugs he has been taking or has taken in the past along with the usual dosages he takes, and if you knew at what time his overdose took place."

John's fingers found the hem of his sleeve, picking at a loose thread as a nervous habit, "Really, Molly would know most of this. I know he's been on opium and had a bit of a problem with morphine before." He turned to Greg. The detective inspector probably knew more about the detective's drug habit than he did due to his 'drug busts'.

Greg nodded, looking over at the nurse, "Years back he did cocaine." He answered, "He's overdosed once before. Real close call."

John blinked, turning to look at Greg with wide eyes, "He's overdosed before?" He asked. Greg swallowed, giving the other man a look of uncertainty before giving a resigned nod and a sad smile.

"When was this former overdose?" The nurse asked.

Greg sat up a little, clearing his throat, "God, I don't know." He murmured, "He had to be in his late twenties. It was around when I first met him. Drugs had the poor lad pretty bad back then."

"Do you know what treatment he was given and if he went to any type of rehabilitation center or got any psychiatric help?" She asked, tilting her head slightly as if interested.

"No, I mean I was the one to find him, but I didn't follow up with him to the hospital. Didn't know him too well then so his business wasn't a huge concern of mine. You might want to ask his brother. I texted him a while ago, I hope he's coming." Lestrade answered, crossing his arms over his chest.

John side glanced at Lestrade momentarily, since when did Greg have contact with Mycroft?

"Thank you for your help. Someone will be out later to tell you when it is okay to go see Mr. Holmes." The nurse said, looking a bit dissatisfied before standing back up and leaving the two men in peace. It was silent for a good amount of time before Greg chuckled softly, murmuring, "Thank God that bastard is okay."

John smiled weakly, "Christ. The things he puts me through." He sighed, rubbing his hands over his tired face, "Looks like I'm calling off from work tomorrow."

"Me as well. I had a case for Sherlock too, we're completely stuck on it, now it doesn't look like we'll be solving it much sooner with him in the hospital." Lestrade commented.

John leaned forward, resting his face into his hands, "God, I'll have to move back in just to make sure he's not doing drugs again." He murmured, unsure if he was even serious or not about the statement, "He's such a difficult man."

"And that's an understatement." Lestrade said, cracking a smile, "Don't worry, John, we've got tabs on him. I try my best to check in on him, really. He's in such bad shape as of late I never want to leave him in that flat by himself, but there's only so much you can do. He doesn't want anyone there babying him, even though that's exactly what he needs."

John frowned, drawing his eyebrows together in confusion, "Bad shape? What do you mean?"

Lestrade turned his head to look at John, "Yeah? Bad shape. Haven't you seen the bloke? I don't think I've ever seen him this bad, even before he met you and was tangled up in drugs. Whenever I visit him he's sprawled across the couch in the sitting room or still curled up in bed. He's barely taking cases anymore. It's not him being picky either. He's just stopped living - in a way - it seems."

"Last time I saw him he seemed fine. Happy even. Happier than he usually is. It wasn't too long either when I visited him." John replied.

Greg looked away from John, a knowing smile spreading across his face. He just shook his head and clasped his hands together in his lap, "He's right you know. You can be an idiot sometimes," He paused, holding his hand up, "No offense mate; but you just seem so oblivious to everything." He murmured.

"Oblivious to what?" John asked, feeling a bit impatient and offended. What the hell was Lestrade prying at?

"I mean," Greg sat up, leaning forward a bit, "Of course he's happy when _you're_ there, when you see him." He said, turning his head, "God, mate, you're his best friend. I've never seen that man so attached to anyone before you. I shouldn't be trying to ... _deduce _Sherlock Holmes' feelings, but the man loves you. That's so apparent, to everyone! Except for you it seems."

"Hold on," John said, a bit flustered, "I know that, he's my best friend, I know, I love him too. That's no mystery me. I know I'm his friend, I know he considers me his friend.." He trailed off, frowning at Lestrade's slightly smug face.

"Obviously you still don't understand." Greg laughed softly, shaking his head, "Look, don't listen to me. I probably don't know what I'm talking about." He murmured, "Just.. try to stop by more often, yeah?"

John hesitated slightly before nodding, "Okay."

. . . .

It wasn't until very early in the morning that Molly finally got a call from Greg. She hadn't been sleeping but she was at least in bed, trying to relax the best she could. She fumbled for her phone before she managed to answer it, "How is he?" She asked immediately.

There was a pause, "Fine. He's fine. We should be able to visit him soon." Greg replied quietly, "There's some questions the nurses are going to need to ask you about the situation that I figured you would know better than I would."

Molly slumped back against her bed letting out a long breath, nearly dropping her phone. She collected her thoughts and emotions before speaking again, "Right, of course. I'll be there soo-"

Greg cut her off, "No, Molly, look, get some rest. He's going to be fine, he's not going anywhere, so get rest and visit when you wake up."

It took a moment for Molly to consider before agreeing, she was quite exhausted, "Okay, fine." She wasn't sure how long she'd be able to sleep but she needed at least a few hours of rest, "Thank you, bye." She said quickly before hanging up and flattening herself against the bed. Thank the heavens, Sherlock was okay.

* * *

**A/N: Disclaimer, these are not my poems at the beginning, probably should of mentioned that before. A few will be later on if I ever come up with a few good ones. I had to research a bit on drug use and aftercare, so I hope this is accurate. **


	4. Waking Alone

**The Stars Go Over the Lonely Ocean**

Waking Alone

It hadn't been expected - no - it hadn't been the _plan _to wake up to a bright room hooked up to machines. The plan had been so much more simple than that. The plan had been to not have waken up at all; to have fallen into the dark abyss that is death. However, everyone should know how plans can always seem to go awry.

When Sherlock Holmes woke up in the hospital all he could feel was a dull pain along with the heaviness of dread. He swallowed dryly, parting his his lips to taste the stale air that smelt of antiseptic. He crinkled his nose, slowly lolling his head to the side to look around. Private room. Good . . . that's good. At least it was better than it could be.

He attempted to shift some of his limbs but he felt like he was a brain attached to a good amount of dead weight. His stomach felt sore and tad bit irritated so he insinuated that they had pumped it to rid him of the toxins. He managed to lift his hand, glancing at the IV stuck into it. Those things were always such a bother.

There wasn't anyone in the room; no nurses, no doctors, (and thankfully) no visitors. Sherlock was not even close to prepared for John's reactions, nor his mother or father's - not anyone's. He had gotten enough hell about relapsing, he couldn't imagine what sort of lecturing he'd get about overdosing. The last time he'd fallen into this event he hadn't so many friends and close acquaintances; he hadn't even told he parents about it.

The biggest thing he was afraid of as of the moment was the possibility of Mycroft sending him into rehab once more. He could just walk out, but he knew his brother well enough to know it wouldn't be that easy. If only he'd taken more. Just a bit more to finish himself off.

It's not as if Sherlock felt suicidal, he never counted his thoughts and feelings as that, but they were. The feeling of self-loathing and the hope that he no longer had to live was definitely one would classify as 'suicidal'. So he needed to come up with some sort of excuse. The whole 'I miscalculated my dosage' wasn't going to get him by. He had too much of an intelligent reputation for anyone to buy that.

The oxygen saturation monitor was also a bother, weighing down his finger and making it bulky. Maybe he could just unhook himself from all of these machines and make a daring escape through the window. His gaze flickered over to the window, damn, no, fourth story. Too difficult. It was also morning, around nine judging by the position of the sun in the sky.

Sherlock chewed on his bottom lip in thought, his eyes continuously wandering around the room for some sort of _thing _to get him out of this nightmare. He decided on removing his IV first. He picked at the tape until it peeled away, flicking it carelessly to the floor. He took a small breath before trying to, as carefully as possible, remove the needle; it stung slightly. After dropping the IV to the floor his hands wandered up his hospital gown to pull at his heart monitor attachments - once done he hurried to pull of the clip from his index finger.

He pulled himself up from the bed but paused as he felt weak and his head began to spin. The detective slowly pushed himself forward over to the door that led to the bathroom. He turned his head listening to outside his door before slipping into the bathroom, shutting the door behind him. He didn't have a plan but he hoped he could formulate one before the nurses were there.

. . . .

John had been nearly asleep in his uncomfortable waiting-room chair when he heard the scrambling of nurses and doctor rushing into the hallway shouting about the patient in room 432. He opened his eyes, sitting up in his chair noticing Greg's absence from beside him. "Four-thirty-two." He mumbled to himself. Wasn't that Sherlock's room? "Oh, Jesus." John groaned, pushing himself up from the chair, immediately attempting to follow after the nurses.

Either he was dead or he was no longer in the room. The latter seemed more possible as it had happened the last time the insufferable git had been at the hospital. As soon as John had been at the door to the room he was stopped and ushered right back into the waiting room. As he saw a few doctors passing through the hallways he noticed one in particular with dark curls sticking out of their cap, looking thin beneath their scrubs.

John frowned, grabbing the man by the shoulder -hoping it wasn't just a doctor with curly hair - and tugged down his surgical mask to reveal the familiar cupid bow lips, "William Sherlock Scott Holmes! What the bloody _hell_ do you think you're doing?" He asked in a sharp tone, eyes narrowed up at the sickly-pale man.

The detective seemed a bit shocked to see John, he seemed something else.. afraid? His jaw was clenched, lips pressed together tightly concealing some sort of response. He tugged the mask back over his mouth and nose, lifting his chin in a gesture that he was going to ignore the ex Army doctor.

John rolled his eyes, "Don't be an idiot, I honestly didn't think you could possibly do so many idiotic things in such a small period of time." He growled, shoving the taller man back into the room - noticing the muscles in Sherlock's back tensing and his body shaking, "Found him."

The nurses and doctor bustling around the room looked over at Sherlock and John, raising their eyebrows in surprise. One nurse finally stepped forward, tugging up at the long sleeved shirt Sherlock had on beneath the blue scrubs, revealing his hospital bracelet.

"Don't take this as a shocker. He's done it before, except last time he actually made it out of the hospital." John said, his voice flat and not at all amused. He already took the hint and left as the staff worked to getting their lost patient back into his bed and hooked back up to his monitors. John sucked in a sharp breath, his index fingers pressing against his throbbing temples. This was all too much.

John didn't walk back to the waiting room mostly because he was far too sick of the place. The air was always stale and he'd memorized every visual inch of the place from being there so long. Now he'd have to wait even longer while they got Sherlock back under control. There was the thought in the back of John's head that kept bothering him. It was the thought - the _sight_ he had witnessed of Sherlock Holmes, the great detective, diminished to a pale shaking overdose patient.

Those blue-green orbs of brilliance embedded in Sherlock's face had seemed so dull and lifeless. His angular face seemed softened yet tensed with uncertainty and distrust. He looked not unlike a scared child in the hospital for their first ever operation. The sight John had witnessed made his chest heave with pain, his heart throb and cry out for the man. He just seemed so _alone._

It was John's fault too. How could he have not seen that? Noticed that? He hadn't been able to stop by and visit with Sherlock very much anymore due to Mary and the baby; but it was slowly just an excuse not to have to drive out to London to see his best friend. He never really thought that the usually isolated, quiet man would prefer his attention, his company. He was wrong. So unbearably wrong.

A few nurses passed him by as he pressed his shoulder blades back against the wall, eyes closing as he let out a small sigh. Slowly he allowed his body to slide down until he was sitting on the tile of the hallway; waiting. For how long, he didn't know. Hopefully not long, because he needed to talk to Sherlock and more importantly apologize before he started yelling at him.

Soon enough he was being tapped on the shoulder, being offered to enter Sherlock's room. John nodded, rubbing tiredly at his face as he pressed inside. He felt as if he could fall asleep in the chair he spotted sitting across from Sherlock's bed.

He managed to wander over to the detective's side, who looked to be asleep, but he figured otherwise. It took most of his effort and energy to tug the chair over to the side of the bed, collapsing into it immediately.

The pale man lying in bed was only in John's vision for a few more minutes before his vision turned to black as he easily fell asleep in the slight comfort of the chair, and the comfort of a leaving, breathing Sherlock.

* * *

**A/N: This is short and very late, I am sorry. But I've been having a lot of things going on.**


	5. Impossible to Breathe

**The Stars Go Over The Lonely Ocean**

Impossible to Breathe

_Standing in self-hatred,_

_Drowning in my tears._

_Looking back on my life,_

_What I've been through the past years._

John Watson. One of the most important people in Sherlock's life. One of the most admired people, the best, and wisest man. Asleep. Chin resting against his chest in what looked like a very uncomfortable position.

The detective shifted on to his side, his gaze transfixed on the doctor, the worry lines gone from his sleeping face. He looked wondrous like this. Youthful and at peace. It was an overwhelming urge for Sherlock to reach out and brush his fingers over the seemingly soft skin over John's face. It was something he never got to do that any of his past girlfriends - and now wife - got to do. Touch him. Hold the man, kiss him, tell him that they loved him.

Sherlock couldn't even tell him how he felt without sugar coating it, making it sound much lesser of a deal. Make it sound like that sort of love you share with a friend. It wasn't how he felt though, with John, he felt more love than just that. He felt the love he suspected Mary did for John. He'd do absolutely anything for that man, and he thought he'd proven that.

If one were to say Sherlock Holmes hadn't shown his depth of loyalty and love for John Watson, they would be lying or terribly oblivious. Oblivious like John was. The man was practically blind to Sherlock's feelings and actions. An idiot. So intelligent, but daft in the compartment of understanding simple, obvious things.

There was always the thought that maybe John didn't want to accept the fact, that he didn't _want _to understand. So Sherlock had learned to not say anything, to cover up his actions a bit, maybe not seem so obvious. He always felt obvious, as if he couldn't be more so even if he were to stick flowers into his face and proceed to snog him.

He had almost thought that maybe, just _maybe _he would have gotten some where with John. Before the Fall.

There were some lingering glances, brushes of hands and shoulders that went unspoken about, and even the simple fact that John had stopped denying, had stopped with whole proclamation to the world that he wasn't gay. Before The Fall they had molded together in this sort of relationship that no one could really describe, but no one needed to. They'd come to an understanding of trust and loyalty, something that - whether either of them would admit or not - was beyond the typical friendship.

Everything before the Fall had been different, better. He had all of John's trust, and now he felt as if it wasn't all there any more. Their friendship had gained a large crack ever since he'd jumped, and all though it seemed they'd stitched it back up a while after his return, there was still a loss there in their relationship. Some bumps and nicks.

Everything had seemed like a broken record since The Fall, including Sherlock himself. He'd always been a broken record, with several little cracks in his foundation; but the overdose, that was him finally crumbling. Still, he just had to have such stubborn transport and pull through to endure his crumbling structure.

Sherlock fidgeted absently with the IV stuck in his hand, averting his eye from John for a few moments, feeling a bit strange about watching him while he wasn't even conscious. It felt like a privilege that he didn't have, hadn't earned. He still couldn't help it. He was so intrigued by the man, it wasn't very often, especially not as of late, that he got to see the man in such a peace. He couldn't occupy himself with fussing with his IV for very long anyways. So he just watched him; his eyes moving from beneath their lids, the small twitch of his perfectly round nose, and the steady rise and fall of his chest.

It was so easy to get lost, drugged up and looking upon the face of someone you were in love with. It sounded excruciatingly cliche and lovey-dovey - something you'd hear a teenage girl cooing about to her friends, but it true. Sherlock Holmes was so hopelessly in love John Watson that it hurt. He was so caught up with this brave, wise, ex-army doctor.

The leisure of sleepily watching the smaller man was not there for long as the door to Sherlock's room pushed open to reveal DI Lestrade pressing inside with a stoic face and a hand pressed over the shoulder of Molly Hooper. She looked frightened, not as she used to be, the sheepish nervous type of fright - but genuinely scared. Worried.

Luckily, Sherlock had the best excuse for not ending up in conversation with them; John. Blessed be this man, thought the detective. He looked over at the two of them, pressing a thin finger up against his lips, flicking his eyes back to John, then to them, signaling for them to be quiet.

They both looked a bit surprised that he was awake, but had faltered in their expression as they caught sight of how poor Sherlock looked. He looked like any other over-dose patient and not the eccentric upbeat man they'd always known.

Sherlock went to the task of ignoring his visitors, sliding back beneath his sheets and turning his back to them. He would at least hope he looked exhausted enough to be able to settle back down to rest. He tugged on his blanket, pulling it on over his shoulders, eyes plastered to the wall opposite him. He tried his best to ignore the foot steps leading over to the bed, the soft voice calling his name; Molly's. "Sherlock?"

He ducked his head, frowning. Idiots never tended to get the hint.

"Sherlock," Molly's voice whispered, "You know we're all going to have to talk about this soon." There was that demanding to her voice, a new, better trait she'd picked up after the Fall. After she'd helped Sherlock and gained a whole new respect from him.

Sherlock just shrugged his shoulders as he picked at the tape pressed over his IV. He knew he was up for at least a day of utter boredom and long detailed lectures pertaining to his drug habit. Mycroft and his parents would be there most likely, shoving brochures for rehabs at him. 'Which one? Just pick one, then you're going there, young man' he could imagine his mother saying. More boredom and tedium - ahoy!

He let out soft groan at these thoughts and lifted his hands to his face, rubbing the heels of palms over his burning eyes. He really _was _exhausted, worn out, and sore. His whole body was suffering from an overwhelming ache.

"Sherlock." It was Lestrade's voice now. Sherlock pressed his lips into a thin line, rolling his eyes at his unbearable amount of irritation from all of this. All these damned people here trying to talk to him, annoying him to no end. The only person he even really _wanted _to be there was John, but even he was going to get a load of unimportant scolding from him.

The detective finally, lazily, rolled over to face his company of three. He blinked drearily at them all - two conscious, one not. He licked his lips, grimacing at how awfully dry they were. "What?" He spat out harshly, not taking consideration to John's attempt at sleeping.

"You know _what."_ Lestrade reprimanded, his brow furrowed and his face contorted in anger and worry, "Jesus Christ, Sherlock, you overdosed!" He exclaimed, not bothering to allow John sleep either - which he didn't. He started to stir in his chair, his lips turning down into a frown as he blinked heavily, taking in his surroundings.

Sherlock felt his throat close up as he saw John's eyes open up enough, awake, to land on him in a strong pull of eye-contact. He adjusted himself, taking his eyes off of the man in the hospital gown to turn his attention behind him at Molly and Greg, "Hey." He greeted tiredly, voice thick with sleep.

"Hello, John." Molly greeted politely, sweeping over to place a comforting hand on to his shoulder as if he were the victim to Sherlock's over dose.

Sherlock felt terribly uncomfortable with all of those people in there, gathering around and saying 'hello' to each other as if they'd all just arrived at the flat for some horrid Christmas party John decided to arrange. "I would prefer that all of you would leave." He said sharply, breaking their small onset of conversation. He felt dizzy, as if everything was just too much that he was going to fall unconscious. There were just too many people - too many people who actually cared, who were going to punish him for scaring them.

"Like hell we're going to leave." John retorted, his features hardening as he glared over at Sherlock. There were just too many emotions boiled up in those clear cyan eyes of John's that Sherlock couldn't identify what was to come next. The soft approach or the livid one.

"I'm not going to talk." Sherlock stated clearly, putting up the mask he always seemed to have on.

"Well you're going to listen." Lestrade prodded, crossing his arms tightly over his chest, "There is no, _absolutely no_ excuse for what you did."

The DI sounded like he were trying to be Sherlock's father.

"Listen to what? 'Oh Sherlock, drugs are bad, don't do them. You could of died. We thought you'd stop. How could you even do this? Didn't you think about all of us? How sad we'd be? Jesus, Sherlock, how bloody selfish of you? We should just send you off so we never have to deal with you anymore - because we care about you!' On and on! I don't don't give a _fuck!_" Sherlock spat, pushing himself up into a sitting position. He felt an unpleasant heat spreading through out him, igniting a large burning flame inside of him. Everyone in the room flinched as Sherlock went off in his outburst, but the look of hurt on all of their faces wasn't enough to keep Sherlock from hitting the button on his remote, requesting a nurse. He wanted them all out, he couldn't deal with them all there. It was paining him, making his chest contort with waves of discomfort. "Leave, now. All of you."

"We're not leaving. Jesus Christ, Sherlock!" John shouted, finding his own anger as he pushed himself up from his chair. The detective remained silent, not able to meet any of their gazes.

"Sherlock please." Molly murmured quietly from behind the two men, trying to add one calm, non-hostile member to the room.

"No." Sherlock whispered sharply, his mouth twitching as he fought to keep his temper that was rising too fast inside of him.

"You're going to listen, and talk to us, because we actually do _care _about you, you pretentious prick! You're throwing all of your life away on something so _stupid,_ Sherlock bloody Holmes a slave to something so idiotic as substance abuse! Why would you even do this?!" John exclaimed, looking absolutely flustered, betrayed.

He was caught up, the detective was so caught up in the argument that he couldn't think leveled, "Because you left!" He shouted, hearing his heart monitor beeping more frequently as his anger took over his body, "I told myself that you'd leave over and over but I guess it still didn't prepare me! But you left, and here I am!" Then he turned on to Greg, in his flurry of anger, "Are you really surprised, Detective Inspector? Really are you?! Because out of all people you should know exactly how I was when I lived on my own before!" And he couldn't breathe, he felt like all the air in his lungs had escaped. There were tears in his eyes that he hadn't even noticed forming.

Then he was struggling, struggling to breathe. It felt impossible to breathe. He started wheezing. Attack. Panic attack? His mind was a chaotic mess of shouting, and his vision was blurring - not able to take in the detail around him, the people rushing over to him, the mask being pressed over his mouth and nose. The world just suddenly became black within a few minutes. The soft drift of voices and alerts from machines faded away along with his consciousness.

* * *

**A/N: Poem by Katrina Randklev. Reviews are appreciated and really do help to inspire me. **


	6. To Break the Boredom

**The Stars Go Over the Lonely Ocean**

To Break the Boredom

_Now man-to-man; _

_Once child and child _

_At play _

_Beneath our mother's aura._

Loving someone really is a truly amazing thing when you think about it. You find this person in life that you could do absolutely _anything_ for. Anything. Jump of the top of a roof, dive into a fire.. You find this person that you are so fond of that every little thing about them can make you smile and amaze you. The way they laugh just makes the whole room light up for you. They are the world, they are your light, your sun.

That was John Watson for Sherlock Holmes. In his worst of times during the time he was taking down Moriarty's web he always heard John in his head, his words, bad or good, and his giggle. God, that giggle he harbored. _"We can't giggle at a crime scene." _His laugh was so soft and bright that it became infectious even to the great consulting detective.

The man had taken over one of the most important parts of Sherlock Holmes's body; his mind. His mind was everything, his brain was what created the work, it was strictly _him_. It was everything to him and it would make sense that when he fell in love with someone that they would take over something so dire to his existence.

It felt like a slice in his back when he woke up alone again, his chest sore from his earlier struggle to breathe. He tried to prop himself up a bit, glancing around the room for his anyone; especially John. Then he felt the tubes in his nose and he immediately tugged them away, dropping them to bed where they eventually slid to the ground. He sucked in a sharp breath, relaxing helplessly back against his bed, eyes sliding up to gaze at the ceiling of the room.

It was times like this when everyone needed a friend, in their time of struggle and need. Sherlock Holmes was always there for everyone else but sometimes this action didn't quite seem to be reciprocated. All he had to do was push away the feelings and thoughts and just live with what he had there for him in life. He took what he got, and just tried to strive more for what he wanted, but he was becoming worn down whether he showed it or not.

Now he was stuck with himself and his own agonizing boredom. He found his gaze locking on a clock attached to the wall across from him, five in the evening. Everyone had probably gone home to refresh themselves; eat, sleep, relax. He had all those options here but not as luxurious. He was quarantined to his bed to waste away hours on meaningless tasks.

His foggy mind slowly became aware of the table and tray settled beside him with a small amount of food that must have been set out for him about fifteen minutes ago. He squinted at it with distaste, pushing it away before turning on to his side, facing the wall with the windows. He didn't have his phone to text John, or receive a text from Lestrade with a case for him - even if he hadn't been taking very many cases as of late; he still liked to hear about them - any complexity or unnerving details it might include.

As Sherlock found himself gazing out the small windows he noticed that The sky was as grey and dreary as his mind felt. There wasn't a single space of blue sky or sun. It was all just so dull and sorrowful. That's what hospitals always felt like, just absolutely dreadful.

. . . .

Hours passed along slowly, slowly like if you were trying to run while surrounded by a pool of water or thick jell-o. Sherlock had made a game of throwing bits of the bread from his sandwich into the small trash bin before the nurses had came in to cart his abandoned food away. Then he was left to watching the television that was veering out from the wall, tilted toward his bed. It was some talk show that he wasn't quite paying attention to, only picking out small observations. Like the main lady who was obviously divorced. Lack of a ring, but the constant touching of her ring finger - not widowed, other wise she'd still have the ring on somewhere on her.

His game of deductions with himself was eventually interrupted by the door to his room opening. His hopes got up that John had come back then instantly became smashed as he saw Mycroft leaning against the door jamb clutching an umbrella. "Brother, dear." He greeted mildly.

"No one told me I had a visitor." Sherlock scowled, turning his attention back to the telly, setting his jaw. The last person he wanted to be there was definitely his brother. Although the last thing he expected from him was any type of shouting, he without a doubt knew there was going to be some form of a lecture. "What the hell do you want?" He asked with a leveled tone.

"Don't be daft with me, William." Mycroft countered in a bit more of a sharp tone.

"Don't be so cliche with me, _Myc_. Using my first name is not going to intimidate me in the slightest, regardless of what mum or dad think." Sherlock retorted, his nostrils flaring, "Just spit out what you've planned to say, then leave."

Mycroft forced a pleasant smile on to his face and stepped inside the room, shutting the door behind him. He took his time walking over to Sherlock's bed, drawing up a chair for himself, settling down in it. He crossed his legs, resting his umbrella in his lap, "I think you know, that _I know_ what this recent overdose was about. I am the smart one so there's no point in trying to convince me or anyone else that this little stunt of yours was an accident."

"Of course it wasn't an accident, I'm not afraid to admit that." Sherlock said to spite his brother, "I know exactly how much I can handle. I knew that I was putting too much into my bloodstream."

"Thank you." Mycroft offered kindly, swallowing a bit thickly before adjusting himself. "So, instead of piling on more heated words that I am sure your friends used, I am just going to inform you of what is going to happen now that you've decided to do this."

Sherlock sucked in his cheeks, shooting Mycroft an annoyed glance, "I am perfectly capable of handling myself and my future." He butted in before Mycroft could continue.

Mycroft gave him an incredulous look, "Excuse me for not believing you under the circumstances." He said with a short smile. Sherlock just rolled his eyes and decided to just shut up to make his brother's visit shorter than it had to be. Mycroft seemed pleased with his silence and continued, "Tomorrow you will consult with a doctor I have assigned for you, she is going to give you a psychiatric evaluation. I am assuming she will indeed find you to have some issues. Then you will be given medication to help which will be transferred over to the rehab that you will be attending shortly after your stay here."

Sherlock let out a bitter laugh, shaking his head with disbelief, "I am not going to a bloody rehabilitation center under and circumstances." He stated tersely, giving his brother a challenging glance.

"Yes, you are, because the alternate options, I think you will find, are much worse." Mycroft said, still keeping his good manner.

"Oh? And what are these horrid alternatives then?" Sherlock shot back, clenching his fists beneath his covers.

"You will be living with me under my roof, where I and the people in my staff, can look after you. Or mummy has offered to take you in also, where I am sure you will be kept after as well." Mycroft answered, eyes darkening a bit, "Your choice, brother."

Sherlock grit his teeth together, pressing his hands over his face, burying the tips of his fingers into his hair. "I want to talk to John first before any of this happens." He said quietly.

"Of course." Mycroft answered, his tone softened considerable, "You know, I am only trying to help you and keep you safe."

Sherlock took a deep breath, closing his eyes, letting his hands drop back down, "I know."

. . . .

Mycroft had left a thick file on the table setting next to Sherlock's bed before he left, wishing him a farewell before skirting off to a meeting. Sherlock glanced questioningly over at the file. The words on the front read: _JAMES MORIARTY/RICHARD BROOKE. _

Sherlock took a deep breath, rolling his shoulders a bit. If he were to be honest, he wasn't quite honest to deal with this monster of a problem again. Even with the excitement the psychotic consulting criminal brought him that made life not as boring anymore, it wasn't something he wanted to deal with. Not now.

There hadn't been anything. Nothing. After the announcement of Moriarty's arrival back to life the day he was due to leave in his exile. Sherlock had began to mess around with some elements of this whole issue; posting papers and pictures up on the wall behind the couch in his flat, but they all ended up back down when he got no where. He was just waiting for the other to make the first move.

He reached out for the file and set it on his lap before sitting up a bit. He opened it up, flicking through the papers, finding nothing particularly new. He drew his eyebrows together in confusion. What was he supposed to do with something like this? There was hardly any new information in here. Nothing that could get him anywhere. He didn't find the point of the file until he noticed a note in the back: _To break the boredom during rehab. -Mycroft Holmes__  
_

Sherlock closed his eyes tightly, forcing himself to inhale and exhale steadily. Rehab. _Rehab._

* * *

**A/N: Poem by Mark R Slaughter. Sorry that this is short, but it's posted sooner than usual so I figured it didn't have to be as long. Hope you enjoy this, thanks for reading and to those who reviewed!  
**


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